Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

“Man, you cannot know. You just cannot know. My host—”he nodded toward Bobbie—“is generous with his liquor.” Bobbie gave him a tip of the imaginary hat. “And I was pretty upset by the whole murder story and John Dunwoodie’s staring me down at the restaurant.” He shook his head, then regretted it.

Bobbie moved to the refrigerator, poured a tall glass of water from the dispenser, extracted some pills from a cupboard, and placed them all on the counter in front of Guy, who knocked them back like a trouper. “Thanks, man,” Guy said.

Wukowski explained that he would need a statement from Guy concerning Jane Dunwoodie’s movements on the night in question. I could see that the officialese made Guy nervous. His eyes darted around the kitchen, as if searching for an escape route.

“Guy,” I said, “just tell Detective Wukowski what you told us last night in the parking lot.”

“What if they find out? That John Dunwoodie is one scary dude. You didn’t see the way he was watching me.”

“Actually, Guy,” Wukowski told him, “if they find out you’ve spoken with the police, you’re home free. Once we have your statement, there’s no reason for them to want to prevent you from talking about what you saw. So really, it makes you safer.” I had to hand it to Wukowski, it sounded entirely reasonable and he delivered it in a voice that was reassuring and confident. But it was all BS. Bobbie had one eyebrow raised as he caught my eye. He knew it, too.

The statement would only be the first step. If a case was built against Jane Dunwoodie, Guy would have to testify and there would be all the reason in the world to try to prevent that. But one step at a time. First, Wukowski needed the statement.

He and Guy settled in the living room, Wukowski in a big comfy club chair and Guy half reclining on the couch with an arm across his forehead as he spoke. Bobbie and I perched on bar stools at the kitchen counter, within eyesight and earshot, but not obvious participants.

Guy didn’t have anything new to add to what he’d told Bobbie and me last night. Wukowski tried several approaches to jog Guy’s memory about John Dunwoodie, to no avail. All Guy had focused on that night was the rhetoric in the RCCLU meeting and seeing Jane scurry down the corridor. I had to admire the way that Wukowski handled the questioning—strong when he wanted Guy to buck up and stop sniveling, tender when he sensed that Guy had reached his limits. Very professional. Very manipulative. I noted it for future reference.

Bobbie and I spoke in an undertone about the possibility of Guy getting some financial support from the gay community, to allow him to take time off work. “I’d set up something through the Belloni attorney, Bobbie,” I told him, “but Wukowski thinks it would taint Guy’s testimony, like we were paying him to say things.”

“I can see how that would look,” he answered. “Let me do some checking and see what I can come up with.” He leaned close to me. “He spilled his guts last night. He’s a mess, Angie. His apartment’s just a rest stop between lovers. His job barely pays the bills. He has too damn many lovers—this isn’t the seventies, you can’t have unprotected sex with multiple partners without consequences. And not for publication, but Guy needs a job with health care. Now.”

Bobbie didn’t explain further, and I didn’t ask, but the specter of HIV sat with us at the kitchen bar. I looked over my shoulder at Wukowski and Guy. Gay Guy. Pitiful Guy. Dying Guy? Jane Dunwoodie would say, serves him right. But don’t we all face that ghost, every time we have sex? Even protection isn’t foolproof. And surely we are all fools for love—or lust—now and then. Perhaps my own relatively conservative count of lovers was only due to fear or suspicion. Perhaps Guy’s was the result of being willing to take a chance, to trust. Or perhaps it was simply biological. Regardless, my Catholic upbringing had taught me that “… in the same way you judge others, you will be judged.” Jane Dunwoodie might want justice, but I sure as hell wanted—needed—mercy more.

I waggled my fingers at Wukowski, gave Bobbie a big hug, and left for the office.

Chapter 26

A fool’s paradise is a wise man’s hell!

—Thomas Fuller

Susan was in the office when I arrived. “Coffee?” she asked.

“I’m way over the limit,” I answered. “I had breakfast at Ma’s with Wukowski, then another cup at Bobbie Russell’s place.”

“Do tell.” She leaned forward, chin in hands, ready to dish. “Is his place as gorgeous as he is?”

“Just about. I’d kill for a whirlpool like the one in the master suite.” I blushed slightly as I recalled my thoughts about me and Wukowski in the tub together. “Listen, Susan, I need some help and it has to be undercover.” I handed her the printout I’d made of the Dunwoodie assets and pointed to the OAPT. “Any chance you can find out how much is in the account and how regular the payments are?”

She shook her head. “Very unethical, Angie. I could lose my license.”

“How would they know?”

“Most of these accounts are tagged. If you query them, the owner is notified.”

“Crap.” I put my purse in my desk drawer and opened my laptop. “Strictly off the record, then, is there anything you can tell me that you’ve picked up from working for Jane?”

“Hmm. Let’s see.” She pulled out a flash drive and inserted it into her computer. “Mrs. Ellingsworth asked Jane for a lot of financial stuff when we were updating her account this week. Seems that one of Mrs. E’s grandchildren is engaged to the daughter of a big competitor, and the kid is trying to get Mrs. E to change over to his fiancée’s firm. So Mrs. E told Jane that she needed to run a financial analysis of both agencies.”